My Bandage of Honour

Ever since I was little incurring an injury and receiving a bandage always made me feel a little hard-core. I remember stapling my thumb when I was five, getting a big nasty tetanus shot in my arm as a result, then going to preschool straight after, hoping that someone would notice the bandage on my arm and comment on how brave I was. The doctor gave me a lolly pop and everything – I had passed this test of pain endurance with flying colours and nobody in my preschool gave me the recognition I deserved. I mean who cares about some kid’s trip to movie world when I have a big gaping hole in my arm!

And, as I sit with a tight little band-aid around my finger, I realise that even now, in my so-called more mature years, I am seeking recognition for my hard-core ways. That some how slicing through my fingernail with a kitchen knife would garner some kind of sympathy from someone who’s more likely to think “Wow, you’re an idiot” rather than “Oh you poor thing, how did you do that?”

Nevertheless, still wear your bandages with pride. They are a good conversation starter, and you can always embellish the story for greater entertainment value, and paint yourself in a dare devilish light. But if you’re on crutches, don’t even try – in my school day experiences people just pretended to listen so that you may let them take your physical aides for a spin, leaving you bench bound, wondering why they are such a novelty, when to you they are just a pain in the underarms.

Oh and by the way, those little scars on my knuckles, they’re from boxing. Yes, that’s right, I injured myself punching something…how awesome am I?

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